


an attempted gesture of friendship

by InsertCoolName



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Discussions Of Health Issues, Gen, How Do I Tag, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Canon Compliant, Possibly Pre-Slash, Strained Friendships, doctors make the worst patients, physical health issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:54:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCoolName/pseuds/InsertCoolName
Summary: "You should really do something about your finish."Knock Out fusses over Ambulon. Ambulon just wants to get his work done.





	an attempted gesture of friendship

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this needs an explanation but all I can say is I don't have one. Time and space fucked up, Knock Out was on Cybertron with Team Prime but now he's on the Lost Light with the Rod Squad. I don't know how, but neither does anyone else, so *shrugs*.
> 
> Might make this into a series, might add another chapter. I kinda got an entire AU brewin' in the brainpan.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome and appreciated! Thanks for reading.

“You really should do something about your finish.”

Ambulon’s optic twitched. “Excuse me?” he muttered without looking up from the datapad in his servo. His grip on it tightened at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“You’re excused,” Knock Out replied flippantly. He stopped at the other side of the table that Ambulon was standing at and reached out to touch one of the tools arranged on it. “Haven’t seen one of  _ these _ in a while,” he commented.

“It’s Ratchet’s.” The red mech nodded in understanding, as if that was all the explanation needed. Ambulon frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” the speedster said. He picked up the tool and began to take it apart. Ambulon itched to stop him, but his movements were systematic and careful. He obviously knew what he was doing. Nonetheless, the medic kept an optic on him as he shifted his attention back to the datapad.

“Your shift doesn’t start for another two cycles,” he said sternly, jabbing at the screen.

“I know.”

Ambulon arched an optic ridge. “Then what are you doing here?” he repeated. “Besides making comments about my paint job and breaking critical medical equipment.”

“I’m not breaking anything,” Knock Out scoffed even as something snapped. The medic looked up in alarm but sighed in annoyance when he realized that it had only been a component latching back into place. Knock Out smirked. “And you really  _ could _ use a new coat of paint, or at least a few touchups.” His smirk fell into a grimace when a chip of paint skittered off of Ambulon’s chassis. “Maybe more than a few.”

Ambulon sighed again, turning away from the table to go to one of the utility cabinets. His carefully-closed off field was tinged with embarrassment, which was ridiculous. Feeling embarrassed would mean that he cared about what others thought about his appearance, which he didn’t. He hadn’t for a long time.

...Still, the judgement stung a bit, coming from as, well, _pretty_ a mech as Knock Out.

“What I do or don’t do with my finish is none of your concern,” he said as he opened the cabinet. He powered the datapad’s screen back up and pulled up a new spreadsheet for inventory. He paused when another snap sounded from over where the other medic still stood, but he ignored it.

“When the health of my fellow medical staff is in question, it  _ is _ my business. Very much so.”

It took Ambulon a few seconds for what Knock Out was implying to hit him. When it did, his servo jerked, sending a whole shelf of medical supplies to the floor.

“They say doctors make the worst patients,” the red speedster continued casually as Ambulon scrambled to pick of the supplies. “I can’t say  _ I’ve _ had much experience when it comes to such matters, it’s not like the Nemesis exactly had a medical team--”

“What does my health have to do with the state of my finish?” Ambulon demanded, glaring at the other medic as he gathered up a few cubes of medical-grade energon. He could almost pretend that he had looked away from the arched optic ridge to examine the cubes for any cracks rather than from feeling foolish.

Of course he knew what health had to do with the state of one’s finish. Ambulon was a medic, after all.

Faceplates burning, he stood up and replaced the cubes. When he turned back to grab some more, Knock Out was standing a scant few inches away from him. He jumped, cursing under his breath. The other medic hummed, holding up a clawed servo. Between two digits he held the paint chip.

“There are a lot of things that could cause paint to flake,” the red mech began. His flicked his wrist, sending the chip from one digit to another in a way that was rather mesmerizing, like a street magician with a coin. “It could be something as simple as heat damage, or just a bit of a rust infection. Treatable, and mostly harmless in the long run. Or…” he paused dramatically, raising his other servo to brush against Ambulon’s chest in a way that could have been suggestive had it not dislodged several more paint chips. Ambulon narrowed his optics and pushed the servo away. Rolling his optics with a pout, Knock Out backed off and continued, “Or it could be something serious. Cybercrosis. Cosmic rust. Cybonic plague. Something that could all too easily spread to the rest of the ship.”

“Listen here, Knock Out,” Ambulon ground out, holding his servo out with his index digit pointed towards the other mech in a way that he had seen Ratchet use many times but had never felt the inclination to do so himself. “I have been a medic since… probably before you were even sparked. I have  _ treated  _ mechs with the diseases you just listed off - I have seen mechs  _ die  _ from them. I helped  _ develop  _ the fragging Cybonic plague, for Primus’ sake!” Knock Out blinked at that, but Ambulon plowed right on through: “I’m  _ pretty  _ sure I can identify any symptoms of any disease I might have, and I’m certain that, if I  _ did _ have anything, I would know how to treat it, and therefore should not have young ‘bots like yourself telling me what I should and shouldn’t do when it is really  _ none of their fragging business _ .”

Ambulon’s engine was running hot by the time his rant had ended, fans running slowly to combat the heat of his anger. They were loud in the quiet that had dropped over the medbay, Knock Out stunned into silence. Ambulon forced them off and turned away, huffing an exvent, and began to aggressively collect up the supplies once more.

After a moment, Knock Out leaned down and helped.

“You sound just like him,” he said quietly. Ambulon jerked his head towards him to find him smiling fondly. “My Ratchet,” he clarified. The medic huffed once more.

“Something tells me that your Ratchet and my Ratchet aren’t that different, then,” he said as he stood up. He slammed a couple of the items down, and Knock Out moved in closer to put his own on the shelf.

“Probably not,” he agreed.

Once they were done picking up the supplies, thankfully all undamaged, Knock Out walked away, returning to the tool-laden table. Ambulon watched as he finished putting the tool he had taken apart back together, then proceeded to return each one to its proper place in the medbay. Ambulon glanced at the datapad in his servo, inventory spreadsheet still blank, and sighed.

“Sorry, Knock Out.”

If knock Out was at all surprised, he didn’t show it. There wasn’t even the slightest change in his field. Instead, he just shrugged, and closed a drawer.

“You weren’t entirely in the wrong. You are a medic, and you know your body. You know when you need help and when to ask for it.”

Ambulon hesitated. He wasn’t sure if that was an ‘I forgive you’ or not. Judging by the analytical look the other medic sent his way, he was leaning towards not.

“However,” Knock Out drawled, “I do have another theory, if you don’t mind me sharing.”

Ambulon said nothing.

“Flaking paint can also be a symptom of mental and emotional distress. Disorders such as depression, anxiety, PTSD--”

“PTSD?”

Knock Out waved a servo.

“A human term, one that easily applies to Cybertronian psychology. I’m surprised we haven’t come up with something for it yet. Anyway, in some cases these disorders can cause their victims to… neglect themselves. They’ll isolate themselves from others. They’ll stop consuming the nutrients they need to survive. They’ll stop bathing.” Knock Out gave Ambulon a much too shrewd look, one that the medic recognized all too well from his own CMO. “They’ll let their physical appearance deteriorate.”

“I’m going to stop you right there, Knock Out,” Ambulon cut in before the red speedster could go on. “First of all, leave the psychology slag to Rung. You’re a medic, not a therapist.”

“Kinda had to be both, in my universe. Only medic on the ship and all.”

Ambulon paused. Knock Out as a therapist. That was a mildly scary thought.

“Secondly,” the medic continued, closing the cabinet, “it is still none of your business. The state of my appearance and its causes are matters that I do not need opinions on. Or help with.”

“Of course,” the other mech agreed. Ambulon shot him a sideways glance, but he appeared completely serious. Ambulon narrowed his optics.

“OK then.”

With that, silence fell over the medbay once more, although this time it lacked the anger. This one was almost relaxed. Knock Out finished putting away the tools, which he hadn't needed to do in the first place - his shift was still over a cycle away - but it was appreciated nonetheless. When he was done, the speedster had hopped up on one of the medberths, setting his elbows on his knees and his head on top of his entwined digits.

Ambulon felt the weight of the other's gaze as he continued taking inventory, but it didn't phase him one bit. He continued his work diligently, and was quickly done.

Shutting off the datapad with a hum, Ambulon faced Knock Out only to find himself face to face with the heavy scrutiny that he had felt as he had been at work. Red and black optics roamed over his chassis thoughtfully, taking in all the dings and dents and patches of missing paint until finally Knock Out's gaze met Ambulon’s.

For a moment he swore something seemed to flash in those optics, something that almost seemed hungry. Ambulon almost scoffed.

_ Hungry _ . As if someone like Knock Out would even look twice at someone like him. He wrote it off as a trick of the light.

“What if help was offered?”

Ambulon blinked. “What?”

“I could help you touch up your finish,” Knock Out replied, dropping a servo to leave his chin cupped in the other. He examined his claws. “I  _ am  _ an expert on fixing cosmetic damage; I could cover up any unsightly marks easily.”

“Didn't you hear what I said?” Ambulon began exasperatedly. “I don't  _ need _ help with--”

“I know you don't  _ need  _ help,” the red mech interrupted, “but I'm  _ offering _ anyway. Call it an attempted gesture of friendship.”

Ambulon scoffed. Attempted gesture of friendship his aft. Ever since he had arrived on the Lost Light, Knock Out had done little to warm  _ anyone _ up to him, let alone Ambulon. Why would he start now?

“No.”

“Alright.” Knock Out dropped his servos and gracefully slipped off of the medberth, giving a languid stretch. Ambulon looked away. “I'm going to see Ultra Magnus about getting some changes in my room. The view is great, but the berth leaves much to be desired.” He waved airily. “Be back for my shift.”

Ambulon watched out of the corner of his optic as Knock Out walked away. “Hm,” was all he replied with, trying to ignore the way the red mech’s finish gleamed under the harsh light of the medbay. It became even more difficult when Knock Out stretched once more, clutching his servos far above his helm and arching his back, but Ambulon managed.

What he didn't manage to do was hold his glossa.

“Why is the state of my appearance so important to you?”

“It's not,” Knock Out replied smoothly. “But the health of my team is.”

“There are less  _ abrasive _ ways to go about inquiring about someone’s health,” Ambulon muttered, thinking back to the paint chip and Knock Out’s chest touches. Although  _ abrasive _ certainly wasn't the adjective Ambulon would normally use.

No need to boost the red speedster’s already inflated ego.

“Something tells me that  _ abrasive _ is probably the best approach when it comes to you.” Ambulon grunted, but Knock Out continued, “Besides, I can't say my intentions were entirely selfless.”

Ambulon scowled in confusion. “What?” When Knock Out didn't reply right away, he turned his head to look at him.

The red speedster was standing in the doorway, facing the medbay with a servo set on his cocked hip and a smirk on his face. When his optics caught Ambulon’s, it grew into a grin, and he winked.

“I know potential when I see it. And you, my friend--” Knock Out gave Ambulon’s chassis another once-over, but this time Ambulon couldn't write the expression in his optics as a trick of the light “--have it in droves.”

With that, Knock Out exited the medbay, leaving Ambulon to stare after him in a shocked and flustered silence. Not a few seconds later his comm pinged, and he opened it before his system could even tell him who it was from.

_ Call me if you ever change your mind. _

Underneath was a commlink code and a signature.

_ xoxo - KO _


End file.
